


Crown Royal On Ice

by casualcoterie



Series: I Be Like the Lyric and She Be the Beat [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcoterie/pseuds/casualcoterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramble in the same universe as Maybe I'm Selfish. Brittany and Santana and a slow morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crown Royal On Ice

**Author's Note:**

> idk if this is going to be a ~thing~, I just wanted to play around in this universe and write some porn and dumb banter.

Leaving your shades open in the city is a bad idea, but the sight of Santana for these twenty minutes every morning that the sun can reach their apartment is worth it. They’ve worked up a sweat and Santana glistens, her wild hair sticking to her bronze skin as she tosses it. She looks like a Frank Ocean song, like a feral goddess as she writhes on the fresh white sheets. Brittany snaps her hips and the force shifts Santana’s whole body - and the pillow she’s clutching with both fists and occasionally her teeth - against the soft silk.

Santana looks so good that Brittany almost can’t stand it. She scrapes her nails down Santana’s ass and the tense backs of her thighs and watches her clenched legs squeeze even tighter around the strapon between them. Santana’s so wet by now that it drips, trailing all the way down her shaking limbs. Sitting up higher from where she straddles Santana’s closed knees, she puts her whole body into her motions, angling her thrusts downwards in that way that has Santana tearing at fabric. For a few moments she keeps it slow and deep, taking a chance to get her breath. Her thighs and back and even her arms burn with exertion but she pushes through it, knowing eventually she’ll hit that sex high where nothing hurts.

Her wife presses her face into the pillow and pulls it tight and Brittany knows that means she’s close. She gives her a twenty count, timing her hips with the tick of Santana’s vintage wall clock that she can hear under the sound of her own heavy breathing and their wet skin connecting. After the last beat she gives Santana a sharp slap to her ass and then rakes her fingernails over the dull heat, but her wife only goes stiff and presses her face into the pillow harder.

Brittany seats the strapon inside Santana, curling over her prone body until she can tear the pillow away from her and toss it aside. She starts thrusting again after, faster, as Santana claws the sheets and her breaths come shallow and rapid. But Santana’s high seems to be fading too fast and she moans quietly, pleading _please, baby, please_ with stuttering exhales. The beat of her hips is almost second nature now, muscle memory, and it’s easy to grab Santana’s thrashing hands and grip them hard in her own. She keeps her hold tight as she wraps her arms around Santana’s chest, knotting them together and pinning her down at the same time.

Her breasts are pressed against Santana’s back and she lets her upper body settle heavily onto Santana. She presses her face to Santana’s face until their hair tangles and she can feel her damp, humid pants against her cheek.

“Yes,” Santana hisses and Brittany fucks her harder, letting gravity guide the toy now as she plows her into the mattress. The soft grunts egg her on, push her to go faster. Soon, Santana goes rigid and throws her head back. Brittany sinks in all the way, grinding hard, and she’s so so close herself - but Santana whines and jerks away and Brittany shivers to a stop, catching her breath alongside the woman beneath her.

Santana groans, and Brittany unwraps her from her arms. Lean legs slide against the sheets and Brittany sags with her, until Santana is flat against the mattress and she’s straddling the backs of her thighs, still inside her.

“Jesus, Britt. How are you not done yet?” Santana grouses at her, shifting against the toy.

She takes the opportunity to stretch out her own tense muscles, stretching her arms high and bowing her back until she hears a pop. “Mmmf,” she moans at the feeling of relief. “I can’t help that you have no stamina.” The words hold a hint of her smile and Santana chuckles lightly into the sheets.

“My stamina is not the problem. Whatever you’re trying to prove, you better get it out of your system soon ‘cause I’m not finna be sitting on a bag of frozen vegetables for three days because you took ‘beat that pussy up’ as a literal direction.” 

Brittany laughs at Santana’s toothless sniping. Warmly, she digs her fingers into her wife’s back, her ass, the wings of her shoulders, luxuriating in the feel of Santana’s lithe body and the pleased noises her touch elicits from it. As Santana melts under her hands she shifts her hips, giving her a few slow, shallow thrusts to test the waters. The soft acknowledging sound Santana gives her is all she needs to get that _three hours on a motorbike_ feeling kicked into high gear again.

Using her knees, she nudges Santana’s legs apart and settles between them. Santana tries to prop herself up on her own knees but the quiver in her strong thigh muscles makes it obvious it’s not a position she’ll be able to hold long. Grabbing the pillows tossed around the bed, Brittany shoves a pair of them under Santana’s belly and then presses firmly on the small of her back with both hands until her wife’s body is draped over them and looking deliciously debauched.

She lets herself be a little more greedy this time, now that she has thoroughly rocked Santana’s world. Now she stays in deep for longer, ruts more insistently, searching out delicious friction on her clit as she rubs against Santana and the back of the toy. Santana rocks her hips a little, rubbing herself against the padding beneath her and then back to give Brittany as much pressure as she can.

Before long Brittany is hunched over Santana again, her hands balled into fists on the bed in front of the pillows and her hips colliding with Santana’s ass roughly.

“Fuck, Brittany,” Santana grits out, and Brittany sinks down until her forehead is pressed into the other woman’s neck. A hand reaches back and drags through her blonde hair before pulling it into a tight fist, tugging insistently. “Come on baby. Fuck me, Brittany.”

Grunting with the effort, she pushes herself harder. Santana’s firm grip makes her scalp tingle and sends vibrations all up and down her spine. As she gets closer to her orgasm, she feels Santana reach beneath herself and raise her hips until she can wedge her fingers against her clit. She comes moments before Santana does, pressing flush against her. The shudders from Santana as she finishes herself off thrum against her own clit and prolongs her orgasm, leaving her limp and finally sated by the end.

For long moments they just breathe together. Eventually Santana’s grip in her hair slackens and she takes that as a signal to roll off and to her own side of the bed, limbs spread wide. Santana pulls herself upright a minute later, immediately stripping the top pillow of its case and tossing it aside with hands that still shake a little. She runs her fingertips over the newly bared top and then her mouth twists up in a little grump, tossing it off the bed too.

“It’s our pillow Santana, it doesn’t matter if you came on it.”

“It doesn’t matter to you, ‘cause ya nasty,” she says without any real bite. “And that’s why it’s _your_ pillow now.”

Brittany shrugs, more than fine with that idea. “That’s hot.”

Santana ignores her to clamber over her sprawled legs, tugging the harness off her hips and then making herself comfortable there. She kisses the inside of her sticky thighs and then higher, slow and feline. “You’re hot,” she corrects before she otherwise occupies her mouth. Brittany buries both hands in her hair and spreads wider.

\---

Honestly, she kind of expected Brittany to roll over and pass out after all that _exercise_ , but she’s really glad that her wife seems to be holding on. Brittany slides their fingers together and kisses them, presses against the thin webbing between them and kisses it, rubs the hard knuckles and kisses them, too. She watches Brittany quietly worship every inch and feels stupidly lucky to love someone who loves so well. Cupping Brittany’s face in her hand, she pulls her close and kisses her tenderly. Her wife smiles against her lips and she grins back, pressing more brief, gentle kisses against her.

“So… I’m definitely better than the _Hitachi_ , right?”

Her lips still and slowly she pulls back to stare Brittany straight in the eyes. “What? Have I seriously been up since 7 am because you wanted to show up my vibrator?”

“When you say it like that it makes it sound like I think the vibrator is competition. I just, you know, wanted to remind you that I’m better. Because I am. Right?”

If she rolls her eyes any harder they will fall completely out of her head. “Yes, Brittany, you are a better lover than the vibrator.”

“Because I heard you using it yesterday.”

She laughs, because this is her wife. Her crazy, competitive wife. “I was horny and you were in the shower, already late for your meeting. I just wanted to get off before I made breakfast, it wasn’t that deep.”

“Nooooo,” Brittany whines, wrapping her arms around her waist and tugging her close. “That’s my job, I don’t care what happens. You’re my wife, I get to take care of morning orgasms. That’s the rule that I’m making up right now.”

Clicking her tongue, Santana runs her fingers over Brittany’s shoulder blades. “Don’t I get a vote in this?”

Brittany gives her a very serious, considering look. “You can veto it, but I can’t guarantee your little friend will survive the ensuing coup.”

Hiding her laughter behind a put upon sigh, Santana nods. “Fine, no more using the _Hitachi_ when you are home.”

“Because you’re gonna use me instead.”

The giggle sneaks out and Brittany looks overly proud of herself. “Yes, ok, because I will use you instead.”

Brittany kisses her then, smooth and sensuous. She feels a smolder start as they kiss wetly. 

“Mmm, Santana?”

She murmurs in a vaguely questioning manner at Brittany, more intent on getting her to shut up and make out some more.

“Will you… make me a sandwich?”

For a minute Santana just stares. “Bitch, did you really just?”

Brittany moves in quickly, pressing her lips to Santana’s neck to mollify her. “I’m so hungry though,” she whines in her ear, nuzzling it sweetly. “While you were busy being my precious pillow princess, I worked off like all of the pasta we made last night.”

“Ok, first of all, I’m not a pillow princess. _You_ are a top that thinks she’s a switch-” Brittany makes a sharp noise of offense but then seems to consider that and nods. “... And second of all, you have been using your lovely legs all morning, don’t tell me they’re broken now.”

Brittany pouts and Santana doesn’t even know why she tried to pretend like she wasn’t going to make a god damn sandwich just because Brittany asked.

“What do you want on it?”

With a pleased squeal, Brittany starts off listing half the things in the kitchen and ends her litany with _a heaping helping of your love_ and Santana just about smothers her with a pillow. When she bends over to grab her shorts from the night before off the floor, Brittany gives her ass a sharp slap and she does turn around and beat her with the pillow a little bit.

By the time she gets back Brittany is starting to doze off, but she perks up pretty quick. She eats ravenously and then turns her attentions back to Santana’s bare and bitten throat.

“Nah, no me gusta. You have mustard breath. Dial it back Stefan Urquelle.”

“Why do you still have clothes on?” The question is accompanied by pointed tugs at the neck of her shirt, and Santana smacks her hands before she can stretch it out so bad it can’t be fixed.

“Because you broke the ride and now it’s closed for repairs, that’s why.”

Brittany whines again like a kicked puppy. “Come ooon,” her wife wheedles, slipping one hand down the front of her sleep shorts and scratching gently just below her belly button. “We can just have naked cuddles.”

“You don’t fool me, succubus. Go take a shower so I can change the sheets.”

Brittany blows a raspberry. “Lame,” she mutters before petulantly licking a wet streak on Santana’s cheek and yanking the covers over her head. “I’m not going, I like my sex den. I won’t let you destroy it.”

“Are you for real right now? Even Ke$ha showers sometimes Britt!”

\---

Eventually she does get Brittany into a bath, bribing her with kisses and a bath bomb that fizzes. While Brittany is distracted she strips the bed and shoves the dirty bedding into a laundry bag and then crams it in the bottom of the closet. She avoids sitting on the clean bed, unwilling to disturb the weirdly domestic vibe the room gives her now. Even though Brittany will be passed out on it within the hour. Really, that kind of makes it better.

Brittany’s still in the bath when she’s finished, so she decides to go grab the mail. She steals one of Brittany’s scarves - a thick, crocheted number that Brittany has been wearing at least three times a week for two months straight - to cover up the marks on her neck that Brittany still leaves no matter how many times Santana explains that only teenage boys get off on hickeys. Normally she’d use cover-up (make-up was created by god specifically so that she can deal with one Brittany S. Lopez-Pierce, it’s gospel), but for a quick trip downstairs the scarf will do.

The key to their box sticks like a motherfucker and she has to fight to get it open. Inside is a letter from her grandmother with a weird lump in it that is probably a herb mixture that she got from her BFF at the bodega. Last time she said it was to bless the apartment. Brittany took it from her before she could throw it away and tried to follow the instructions included. It ended up giving her a rash from wrist to tits and nearly sent the landlord to the hospital. She had to scrub the doorway with a noxious mixture of cleaning products to get the residue off. It was not a good time. A part of her wants to burn this attempt of her grandmother’s to troll but she’s pretty sure the smoke would give her lung cancer. She resolves to ditch it in the subway where it might do some good killing off some of the rats. There’s also a box from Brittany’s mom and it’s probably more novelty salt and pepper shakers, but that’s still better than getting yet another toaster from her dad.

She loves Pierce to death but nobody eats that many bagels, not even in New York.

As she’s juggling the mail, Deanna and Sarita come through the door and they both look really excited to see her, which is weird. Deanna is good people but Santana is still getting used to making friends she hasn’t actively terrorized for years first. Honestly, she’s just glad to have someone to talk about TV with because Brittany won’t watch any of the good English language stuff and not having anyone to bitch about it with was literally killing her.

She falls into easy, light conversation with Deanna and it feels kind of domestic in its own way - like how she imagines suburbs in the 50s were, minus the overt racism, classism, sexism, homophobia and McCarthyism. Sarita bangs her tiny hand against the box in Santana’s hands and tries to tug on the scarf around Santana’s neck (Deanna gracefully doesn’t comment on the marks the shifting scarf reveals) and generally fidgets and fusses, and no amount of bouncing seems to soothe her. Soon she starts whimpering, her little lips pouting out like the entire world is ending for her right that very second, and Deanna groans. 

“Uh oh. I think someone needs a nap.”

\--- 

Her baby pangs effectively squashed after walking Deanna the rest of the way home and chatting as a squalling Sarita is put to bed, Santana crosses the hall to her own apartment and quietly sneaks into the bedroom. Brittany has her hand over her face and murmurs at the sound of the dresser drawer opening. Santana goes still and in a few moments she settles back into her doze. Stealthily she grabs fresh clothes and slips into the bathroom and then strips, showering briskly and doing her damnedest not to get her hair wet at the same time.

By the time she finishes her after shower skincare routine Brittany is fast asleep in the bedroom, her wet hair soaking into the comforter and her mouth open, snoring lightly. Santana creeps close and kneels beside the bed, resting her cheek on the cover so they’re face to face. 

Brittany’s skin is scrubbed and bare and so impossibly young, soft and open in sleep. She knows they’re not old, not by a long shot, but they’ve grown together for years and she can see that so easily without the deep smile lines of Brittany’s every waking moment. Even the perpetual shadows under her eyes have faded. She wants to take Brittany’s face in her hands, rub oils and ointments into the delicate skin around those blue eyes and the softness of her lips and brow - she wants to preserve this perfection for as long as possible.

A hand tickles up her arm and Brittany sighs. “Stop being an Edward.” Brittany leans forward blindly, tapping their foreheads together before she figures out the angle to kiss her. That familiar smile is already there around her eyes and on her lips and Santana thinks she’s only gotten more beautiful.

“Can I give you a facial?” She strokes gently along the bridge of Brittany’s nose and along the contours of her eyebrows, delicately mapping her features with the pads of her fingertips. The dusting of freckles on Brittany’s skin are starting to darken as the weather lightens and it reminds her that she should definitely pick up more sunblock.

Brittany smirks, eyes still closed and all of her movements slow and sleepy. “You’re definitely probably not talking about what I’m thinking about.” She yawns and twists her face into the hand petting her, kissing Santana’s palm. “Whatever you want, honey. But later. Lay with me for awhile.”

She does, sliding over Brittany to settle against her side. Brittany grabs her leg and hikes it up, encouraging her to move in close, and she does. Her heel hooks behind the back of Brittany’s far leg, her arm slips around her waist. They settle in and Brittany is out like a light, face pressed into Santana’s hair. Santana fades slower, measuring their breaths until they fall into sync, thinking of a thousand more lazy afternoons just like this.


End file.
